


may the road rise with you

by symphony7inAmajor



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: (don't worry the guy gets strangled), Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Found Family, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, period-typical violence, see end notes for more warnings, weirdly tender for a story about blood sports and yet, yearning for your frozen homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 16:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20312479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symphony7inAmajor/pseuds/symphony7inAmajor
Summary: “Dominushas acquired another slave—a gladiator, or soon to be.”“And why should this be of interest?” Roope raises an eyebrow before turning away to dress.“Dominusgoes through gladiators as though he forgets we are worth something to him.” Roope straightens, tying his hair into a braid with a strip of leather.“Because,” Esa says, drawing out the word, “according to rumor, he is fromhome.”(home is where the heart is.)





	may the road rise with you

**Author's Note:**

> okay i've wanted to write a gladiators au for a WHILE but i never knew who to write about? but like. i needed to write something corny with roope and miro okay like they're so stupid and i love them a lot. 
> 
> also i KNOW this is set in the roman republic and before the christianization of europe okay. i KNOW nobody would be named john. or james. or whatever. but it's fiction i do what i want (just added the historical inaccuracy tag so everyone knows i know that). also the roman period of ancient finland wasn't until 1 AD-400 AD and the republic ended in 27 BC so most of them probably wouldn't have been there. whatever again. rome's reach is long.
> 
> anyway. it's about the inherent Sexiness of sparring. that's 99% of why i wrote this
> 
> title from "rise" by public image ltd.

The day Miro arrives at the _ ludus, _ Roope almost sleeps through his arrival. 

Or, he tries to. Esa wakes him up by pouring water over his head and laughing at him. 

“You’re lucky we don’t have to face each other on the sands,” Roope grumbles, trying to bring order into his hair. It isn’t going well. And curse Esa for this—some _ mentori. _

“You’re lucky you didn’t sleep through this,” Esa counters. _ “Dominus _ has acquired another slave—a gladiator, or soon to be.”

“And why should this be of interest?” Roope raises an eyebrow before turning away to dress. _ “Dominus _ goes through gladiators as though he forgets we are worth something to him.” Roope straightens, tying his hair into a braid with a strip of leather.

“Because,” Esa says, drawing out the word, “according to rumor, he is from _home.”_ He has the faraway look in his eyes he always gets when talking of home. 

Roope knows how he feels. He misses home, too, misses cold winters and snow in his hair, his _ family, _ but it’s been years since the Romans took him away. He has long accepted there is no going back. 

“I hope he learns quickly,” Roope grumbles, leaving his cell with Esa close behind. “I do not fancy being distracted when what we need to focus on is the arena.” _ And winning our freedom, _ he doesn’t say, but Esa knows.

They resume speaking Latin when they are beyond the gladiator quarters and can be overheard. It’s five lashes to be caught speaking anything else.

“So how did _ you _ find out about this new slave?” Roope asks. 

“Oh, you know,” Esa says, and does not elaborate. It doesn’t matter. Roope does know.

He rolls his eyes.

“Klingberg?”

Esa smacks his arm.

“You know _ dominus _ tells Jamie about all his plans for purchases,” Esa says, “and Jamie tells John, so.” He shrugs. 

“It’s _ John _ now, is it,” Roope says.

Esa smacks him again.

Most everyone is already in the training area when they arrive, but none of them are doing any actual training. Klingberg picks his way through the group to Esa. He raises an eyebrow at the suspicious look Roope gives him, then ignores him. 

“They should be on their way back now,” he tells them. Well. He tells Esa. Roope just happens to be there. “I heard he killed two soldiers before they could subdue him.”

The three of them exchange vicious grins, united, for the moment, by their hate for the Romans.

The unity is broken by the sound of the gates opening. 

The gates lead directly into the training grounds, and Roope often fantasizes of climbing them and running as far as he can. Nothing more than dreams, though; the guards posted on both sides see to that. 

Some of the guards lead the small group of slaves through the gates. Most are scarred; prospective gladiators tend to be. Some are missing teeth. All of them are in chains. 

Generally a good idea, with fighters. 

“Meet your new brothers,” Montgomery says. Montgomery has only been in service at the _ ludus _ for a few months, but he has settled into his role as the trainer easily. 

“Not our brothers _ yet,” _Esa murmurs, eyes flicking over the motley group of men in front of them. Roope smirks.

The only reason Montgomery doesn’t chastise him is because he’s too busy talking to his new trainees.

“If you are not good enough to be here,” Montgomery is saying, “then you will be sent to live out the rest of your days in the mines.” 

Same old. 

Montgomery turns around and scowls.

“Well, you’ve had your introductions!” he barks. “What are you all doing just standing around?”

Roope follows Esa and picks up a heavy sparring sword. Esa gives him a disdainful look as always before picking up a weighted net and trident. 

“I do wish you’d use a shield,” Esa tells him as they head to the corner of the yard to spar. 

“It would only slow me down, you know that,” Roope says, dropping into fighting stance. Esa rolls his eyes and braces himself. 

“Could you tell which one of them it was?” Esa asks. He doesn’t clarify. 

“No,” Roope answers. “Everyone looks the same when they get here. They all look dirty.” Esa snickers.

Roope darts forward then, jabbing out with his sword and retreating, circling around Esa. Esa scowls and tries to swipe at his ankles with the trident. Roope skips back and out of the way to avoid being tripped, and promptly runs into someone.

He turns, a barb ready on his tongue to whichever one of the other training duos ended up outside their marked area, but it isn’t anyone he recognizes. It’s one of the new men. Although _ man _ might be pushing it a little—he looks barely removed from boyhood.

“Apologies,” the boy says awkwardly. “I was told to join you.” The Latin is heavy on his tongue, but his accent is familiar—familiar, because it is the same as Roope’s. 

“You must be our new fighter from home, yes?” Esa leans over Roope’s shoulder to get a better look at him. “Heard you killed a pair of Romans.” 

Roope elbows him in the belly and he grunts. 

“Latin, idiot,” Roope says. 

The boy nods slowly, looking between Esa and Roope uncertainly. 

“Yes,” he says in halting Latin. His face hardens and, for just a heartbeat, Roope wonders if he really is as young as he looks. “And yes. About—about the Romans.”

He shakes himself off a little bit. 

“How old are you?” Esa asks. 

“What’s your name?” Roope asks at the same time. Roope frowns at Esa. He’d been wondering, too, but still—rude. 

“Miro,” says Miro. He narrows his eyes at Esa. “Twenty summers.”

“Old enough to fight,” Esa says agreeably. 

“Old enough to die,” Roope mutters, just loud enough that Miro hears him.

“I do not think I will be the one who has to worry about dying,” Miro says. Their eyes meet, blue on brown, and hold for the space of a breath. Roope feels something spark in his chest, bright and hot. 

“Ahem,” Esa says mildly, “if you two are done.”

Roope looks away first.

“Well,” Esa says, looking pleased at interrupting the moment they were very much _ not _ having. He jabs a thumb at his own chest. “Esa. Esa Lindell, but we don’t really use family names here.” He points at Roope. “Roope.”

“Hintz, if you must know,” Roope says, in the long-suffering voice of someone who has been through many of Esa’s introductions. 

Esa leads Miro to the weapons racks and spreads his hands. 

“Choose anything you want,” he says grandiosely. He pauses. “You may have to change it if it’s thought too boring, though.” Miro raises an eyebrow and starts rifling through the wooden weapons. He seems to be searching for something, judging by the focused expression on his face. “I assume you’ve already met Jamie?” Esa nods to where Jamie is sparring with Klingberg, his heavy axes against Klingberg’s fishing harpoon and net.

“He’s the one who suggested I meet you two,” Miro agrees. “I met John, too.”

“Ugh,” Roope says. Esa and Miro shoot him matching confused looks. He scowls at them and stares out at the training field. 

“Roope is jealous of John,” Esa whispers loudly. “He’s scared that John is going to steal me away and then he won’t have any friends.” Miro giggles, the sound so unexpected that Roope turns around to stare at him. Miro is looking straight at him, though, and his smile fades slowly into a look of confusion. 

“I have _ friends, _” he says. He can’t think of anything else to say to salvage his dignity, and he crosses his arms. 

“Anyway,” Esa says slowly, “our Gaul isn’t training today. He got hurt in his last fight, so he’ll be a while. He and Jamie usually train together, because they’re often used when there’s fighting in pairs.” He shrugs. “They’re the best here.”

“He’s annoying,” Roope says bluntly.

“Yes,” Esa agrees. “Unfortunately, you still couldn’t beat him in a fight. Maybe if you ran away, though.” He looks thoughtful. 

“I’m not _ actually _ going to try to fight Tyler,” Roope reminds him. Esa nods wisely.

“Found it,” Miro says suddenly.

Roope looks back to see him holding up a spear. A common enough weapon, but unwieldy at times.

“Get a shield and let’s go then,” Roope says. “Gods know Montgomery won’t take kindly to us just standing around.”

Miro looks at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“Why would I want a shield,” Miro says at last. 

Esa laughs. 

“Looks like we’ve found you a kindred spirit,” he says, punching Roope in the arm before jogging back to their corner. 

“I know we aren’t supposed to kill each other in the arena,” Roope mutters to Miro as they follow more slowly, “but sometimes he tempts me.”

Miro makes a strange sound beside him, and Roope turns to see if he’s alright. Miro has a hand over his mouth and his shoulders are shaking a little. He’s _ laughing, _Roope realizes. The fact that he’s the one who made Miro laugh makes him feel oddly proud of himself.

“Here,” Esa says. “Try against Roope first. You will likely face swords most often in the arena, so get used to them.”

Miro nods and takes position across from Roope, spear at the ready. Roope raises his sword. Esa whistles sharply, the signal to start. 

Roope circles Miro slowly, much like he had done earlier with Esa. Miro turns to follow him, his feet shifting over the sand. Roope narrows his eyes. He can’t see any openings in Miro’s defences, it’s like—

Spinning his spear out, Miro stabs toward Roope, forcing him back a step. Roope slashes with his sword, knocking the spear away from him, but Miro recovers quickly. The two of them exchange a flurry of blows, the heavy sound of wood striking wood all Roope can hear. His world has narrowed down to the sand, the sword, the spear, and Miro. Miro is a little bit shorter than Roope, but he makes up for what he lacks in reach with the length of the spear, almost _ easily _ keeping Roope at bay. 

Roope burns with frustration. What kind of training has he had? 

Unexpectedly, Miro ducks under Roope’s next swipe, landing hard on his knees in the sand. Even as he falls, he lashes out with the spear, sweeping Roope’s feet out from under him. Roope lands hard on the ground, his breath forced out of him. Winded, he scrambles to pick up his sword, dropped when he fell. 

Someone steps on his wrist. 

Miro. Of course. 

Miro pushes the sword out of reach with the butt of his spear, then kneels so he has one knee planted on Roope’s chest. Roope stares, stunned, as Miro pushes the head of the spear under Roope’s chin. 

“I win,” he says softly. 

Roope swallows hard. His pulse thrums in his throat. Miro’s eyes are dark with exertion, his sweaty hair falling into his eyes. Roope licks his lips. They feel dry, for some reason. 

“Good fight,” says someone who isn’t Esa. Roope shifts his gaze from Miro and sees Jamie and Klingberg standing behind him. 

Miro hurries to his feet. He reaches down to help Roope stand, but Roope ignores the offer and gets up on his own. He recovers his sword. 

“You’ll be training with me from now on,” Klingberg says. “Most of the time.” 

Blinking in surprise, Miro looks between him and Roope. 

“But I thought—"

“It’s best to train with different people,” Esa says. “And besides, we’ll still be here.” He smiles charmingly.

“Don’t worry,” Klingberg tells Miro, leading him away, “I’m very good.”

Roope kicks the sand. Fucking _ Klingberg. _

“Oh, don’t look so sad,” Esa says. He cracks his trident over Roope’s shins. “He’ll do better one on one with John than with the two of us.” He leans closer to Roope, a calculating look on his face. “You should be glad,” he says. Roope looks at him sharply. “You can’t suck his cock if he dies in the arena.” 

Roope swipes at him with his sword, but Esa dodges easily, laughing. 

“You may consider yourself blessed by Eros, but you blush like a maiden,” Esa taunts. He braces himself for a fight. “It was all over your face.”

_ “So _lucky we don’t have to train with real weapons,” Roope mutters, but he can’t help himself from looking over Esa’s shoulder at Miro, listening intently to Klingberg’s instructions.

Esa uses his distraction to throw his net around Roope’s sword, rendering it useless, and pressing the blunt tips of the trident against his belly.

“Don’t get distracted,” Esa reminds him. He smirks.

“I hope you get eaten by a lion,” Roope tells him sincerely as he tries to untangle himself from the net. 

Esa just laughs at him. 

* * *

Once the sun gets higher in the sky, Montgomery whistles loudly and Roope puts his sword away. His stomach rumbles. 

“Shouldn’t have slept so late,” Esa says. He puts his trident away and pats it fondly. 

“Fuck you,” Roope answers. He turns to head to the tables for some food and immediately runs into Miro again. Miro was on the edge of the short steps leading up to the armory, and he falls back, eyes wide in surprise. Without thinking, Roope reaches out and catches his wrist, pulling him upright.

“Apologies,” Miro says. Then, “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.” Roope shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

Miro looks at him curiously, studying his face, then seems to realize something. He raises an eyebrow, gaze flicking down to where Roope is still holding his wrist in a loose grip.

“Oh,” Roope says. He drops his hand. 

“So,” Miro says, putting his spear away. Roope isn’t sure why he’s following Miro around. “How long have you been here?”

“What do you mean?” Roope asks. He motions for Miro to follow him to the tables. “Here, in the _ ludus? _Or the city? Or the Republic?” He picks up a bowl and hunk of bread, passing them to Miro before collecting his own. 

“All of them, I suppose,” Miro answers, like he isn’t sure why there should be a difference. Roope dumps stew into their bowls and takes Miro to a table in the corner with few people around. 

“I’ve been a gladiator here for a couple years now,” Roope says. “The Romans took me when I was only eighteen, though.” He bites his lip, unsure if he wants to continue, but Miro’s looking at him curiously. Roope keeps his voice quiet. “I’ve always been a slave here,” Roope explains. “But the journey south left me weak and starving. I didn’t look like much of a fighter. But—" Roope hesitates.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Miro says unexpectedly. Roope blinks at him, surprised, then shakes his head.

“Everyone here already knows the story,” Roope says. “I’d prefer you hear it from me than one of them.”

Miro nods.

“I was no more than a regular house slave for a long time,” Roope says. “I used to think that was all I’d ever be. The Romans shaved my hair on the way here.” He grimaces. “Lice, you know. But it grew back,” Roope touches a hand to his braid. “I didn’t want to cut it, and no one told me to, so I didn’t. People noticed.” 

The expression on Miro’s face makes Roope think that he’s already guessed what happened.

“More specifically,” Roope says, “the household guards noticed. They’re free men, all of them, and they do what they want with the house slaves as long as it doesn’t—doesn’t _ damage _ us.” Roope briefly curses himself for still referring to himself as one of the house slaves. He’s _ not, _ not anymore, and he needs to remember that. He keeps talking, hoping that Miro doesn’t notice his mistake. “One of them often said that my hair made me look like a woman.”

Miro raises an eyebrow. Even with Roope’s hair, which is longer than Roman men keep theirs, he’s taller than most Roman men, and broad in shoulder. 

“I know,” Roope says drily. “It was little more than an excuse for what he _ tried _ to do later.” Roope tears off a piece of his bread with his teeth, chews, swallows. “He came to my sleeping place one night. One of the other guards heard shouting and came in time to see me strangling him with his own belt.”

“And they didn’t kill you for that?” Miro looks awed. “Laying hand on a freeman like that….”

“Some wanted to,” Roope agrees. _ “Dominus _ had other ideas. Why waste someone like me, proven to be a fighter, on the mines or an execution.” Roope stares down at his bowl. “I wasn’t even thinking about dying,” he says softly, and he hasn’t told anyone this part before, although Esa has probably guessed. “I just—I didn’t want him to touch me.”

Something touches his foot under the table. Roope looks down to see that Miro has pressed their ankles together. He looks back to Miro. Miro nods once, small, and goes back to his food. He takes his foot away, too, and Roope tries not to think about why he feels so cold all of a sudden. 

* * *

It is no surprise that Miro is chosen for the arena barely three months after he first arrived at the ludus. His skill with the spear is noteworthy, and Roope usually ends up losing when they spar together.

Montgomery tells everyone about it after a training session one morning, telling them about the coming games and what everyone’s roles will be. The tournament is small, small enough that Roope won’t be fighting in it. He can’t help but feel a little bitter, even though he’s far from the only one who’s been snubbed. 

Miro finds him at the tables. Esa is across from him, so Miro slides onto the bench and jostles his shoulder against Roope’s. 

As he reaches to take his food, Roope’s eye catches on the new star-shaped brand on the inside of his elbow. 

_ Like cattle, _ he thinks, that familiar fury rising in him as it always does when he sees such blatant reminder of their status.

“Big day, being assigned your first fight,” Esa says, grinning. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty good,” Miro says. He shrugs. “I won’t be fighting a man, at least. Should make it easier.” 

“You haven’t had to fight an animal before, though,” Roope says. “It’ll be much different than how you’ve been trained.”

“I’m sure I can outsmart a lion,” Miro says, leveling a cool look at Roope. 

“I’m sure,” Roope murmurs. 

This time, Miro looks away first. 

“Good luck,” Esa says then. “And remember, a lion won’t be moved by mercy. If you get an opening, use it, and kill the beast. The Romans want entertainment. Don’t sacrifice your life for it.” Esa glances around surreptitiously, and does something entirely unexpected. He leans forward across the table and speaks in a quiet whisper that only Roope and Miro can hear. He recites a prayer—a prayer from _ home, _to their own gods, not the Roman ones.

It’s a prayer Roope recognizes, though it is not identical to what he is used to hearing. The prayer is one given to warriors before they leave for war, a prayer to guide their weapons to the hearts of their enemies and return home safely. 

_ “Dominus _ will have your life if he hears you say that again,” Roope says, trying to hide how shaken he is. Much as he hates how clunky Latin feels on his tongue and the sharp consonants that grate on his ears, hearing his own language always hurts. It makes memories of home rise to the surface unbidden. 

“He already owns my life,” Esa says with a sneer. “I cannot control what he does with it. But I can control what I do to help my friends.” 

Roope looks away, shame heavy in his gut.

“Thank you,” Miro says quietly. Roope almost forgot he was there—almost. He’s always at least somewhat aware of Miro’s quiet, solid presence. 

“Yes, well, I suppose good luck from me as well,” Roope says. He presses his ankle against Miro’s in a brief, hopefully encouraging gesture. “Gods willing, you will return no worse for wear.”

“Gods willing, I will always return to you,” Miro says. 

Roope knows that Miro means _ you _ as in the _ ludus, _ as in Esa and all the brothers, but for a heartbeat, he thinks Miro means _ him. _

The warm spark in his chest feels more like a burning flame, now. 

* * *

Even though Roope isn’t fighting, he watches the games from the gates at the underside of the arena. 

Miro comes to join him during the fight before his own, lightly armored and holding his spear in his hands. This spear is real, bright steel capping a smooth wooden shaft. Leather has been tightly wrapped around parts of the shaft to allow for easier grip. 

“Remember,” Roope says, talking quickly as the commotion on the sands winds down, “the lion is starving. It won’t be thinking clearly. All it wants is to kill and eat you. It will be faster than you, and stronger. Be _ smarter.” _

Roope turns to face him and glances around before pulling the leather strip out of his hair. He takes Miro’s hand and turns it palm-up so he can tie the piece of leather around his wrist, tight enough that it shouldn’t fall off, but loose enough that it will not impede his fighting. 

“Return to me,” Roope says fiercely, and Miro looks at him, surprised, but there’s no time to say anything as he is ushered through the gates and onto the bloodied sand. 

As Miro is introduced as a barbarian warrior from the north, inspiring mixed jeers and cheers as the Romans do not yet know what to make of him, Roope grips the iron bars of the gates and prays to every god he knows. Even the Roman ones.

A Roman guard, standing close to an open gate, heaves a rope and opens a trapdoor hidden below the sand. He hurries through the gate and it clangs shut behind him, leaving Miro alone on the sands.

Roope can’t hear the snarls of the lion, but he can see Miro’s face pale as he raises his spear. His heart races in his throat.

The lion climbs out of the trapdoor, emaciated but no less deadly for it. Even from a distance, the muscles rippling under its fur show the beast’s power.

Miro adjusts his stance and Roope sees the way his own muscles shift. Roope realizes that the lion is not the only one on the sands with power. He dares to hope.

The lion’s amber eyes light on Miro and it bares its teeth, saliva dripping past its yellow canines.

A healthy lion might prowl towards Miro, try to corner him before striking, but this lion hasn’t eaten in days. It is desperate.

It launches itself at Miro, covering ground in a frighteningly short time. 

Miro doesn’t move. 

“Do something!” Roope yells, lost in the clamour of the crowd, and the lion is almost on him and—

Miro leaps neatly out of the way, hitting the ground in a roll and up onto his feet in a heartbeat.

As the lion leaps by him, Miro lashes out with his spear and the blade catches the lion’s haunches. 

Its furious roar is drowned out by the screams of the crowd.

The lion stumbles to an ungraceful stop, lashing its tail as it faces Miro again. Miro thumps the butt of his spear against the sand in challenge. 

Again the lion leaps, and again Miro dodges, each time leaving a fresh wound. The blood is bright against the sand-coloured pelt. The lion is slowing down. 

“Kill it!” Roope shouts, and Miro raises his spear again. Roope catches sight of the leather tied around his wrist. 

But the lion has learned. This time, it doesn’t leap all the way past Miro, and as soon as his spear darts out, the lion catches the shaft in its teeth. 

The sound of the shaft breaking echoes in the sudden silence of the arena. 

A lesser man might have hesitated, trying to think how he could still survive this, and his hesitation would have brought him death.

Miro is not a lesser man. 

Miro wastes no time in diving for the broken end of his spear. He grabs the broken shaft. Roope sees a flash of sun off steel, then Miro runs at the lion.

The moment the lion bunches its muscles to leap, meet him in midair, Miro hits the ground and slides. It’s too late for the lion to change course as it launches itself into the air, and Miro stabs _ up _ with his broken spear. 

The lion yowls, hitting the ground in a mess of limbs. 

Miro stands, empty-handed. He is covered in blood from tearing open the lion’s belly. 

He stumbles slightly as he picks up the longer wooden end of his spear, but does not fall. He stands straight with his broken weapon in his hand, and steps towards the lion. 

The arena seems to be holding its breath. 

Roope’s knuckles are white on the bars, but they do not cooperate when he tries to relax them.

Miro screams when he brings the jagged end of the spear through the lion’s eye.

Its massive paws twitch, only once, and it is still. 

Silence. 

Then a _ roar. _

Roope lets out an explosive breath as the audience rises to their feet, shouting for Miro. 

Miro looks almost _ surprised _ as he looks at them, face pale under the blood. His hands curl into fists by his sides before he relaxes them. 

He looks at the body of the lion for a very long time before a guard comes to escort him away. 

* * *

Roope doesn’t get a chance to see Miro for what feels like hours, all the brothers wanting to get a chance to talk to him about his fight. 

Esa asks Roope about it. 

“He killed the beast,” is all Roope will tell him. “That’s all.”

But it isn’t, Roope thinks. It was more than that. 

Eventually, Miro retreats to the baths to scrub off the blood. It’s late enough that the other day’s fighters have already washed, so Roope knows he’ll be alone. 

Roope finds him sitting on the edge of one of the pools with his face in his hands, still dressed. His skin is still patchy with dried blood. 

“Miro,” he calls softly. 

Miro jumps, obviously not expecting anyone. He rubs at his face before he turns around, but his eyes are still shiny.

“Apologies,” Miro says, voice unsteady. “I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

Roope joins him, dipping his feet into the warm water. 

The gladiator baths are underground, separate from the house slave baths. The dark chamber is lit only by a few flickering torches.

“You know,” Roope says quietly, “I cried after my first fight, too.”

“Really?” Miro asks. He looks a little encouraged. 

“No,” Roope answers. “I just thought it would make you feel better.”

Miro snorts and wipes his eyes. 

“I did throw up, though.”

“I haven’t thrown up,” Miro says. 

“Yet,” Roope adds. “You never know.” Roope listens hard for a moment, but he doesn’t hear any other human sounds, only the snapping of the burning torches and soft lapping of the disturbed water. “It’s hard because nobody has a choice,” Roope says quickly. “You have to be there, and so does your opponent, be it man or beast. And neither of you want to be. You struck the final blow because you had to, but it was the Romans that killed it.”

“Roope, what you’re saying is—"

“The Romans kill us all in the end,” Roope says. “The only way not to be killed is—"

Unexpectedly, Miro slides into the water to stand between Roope’s legs and kisses him hard. Roope makes a startled noise into it, and it’s then that he hears the footsteps. 

_ Clever boy, _Roope thinks, quickly wrapping his legs around Miro’s waist and taking his face in his hands, trying to make it look like they’ve been at this for a while. 

Roope doesn’t dare turn around when the footsteps finally come to a stop behind him. 

“Do you think we could have a few moments of privacy,” Miro asks sweetly. He slides one hand up Roope’s inner thigh.

“I heard voices,” someone says, and Roope knows by the ease of the Latin that the speaker is a guard. “I thought….” He doesn’t seem to know what he thought.

“Yes,” Miro agrees. “We were talking about my fight, and we were about to get to the fucking when you came in.”

His tone is still inoffensive, matter-of-fact. 

“Do you mind if we can get on with it?” Miro continues. “We can take it back to my cell if we need to, but.” He sighs, hard done by. He sweeps his thumb over the inside of Roope’s thigh, making him shiver. “It’s such a pain to clean up after.”

“Very well,” the guard says awkwardly. “Don’t—don’t damage each other.” 

The footsteps as he leaves are much faster than they had been coming in. 

As soon as the chamber is empty again, Miro collapses against Roope, laughing into his shoulder. 

“Oh, gods,” he gasps, “you should have seen the look on his face.” 

Roope snickers. 

“I could hear it in his voice,” he admits._ “‘Don’t damage each other.’” _

Both of them start to laugh again. 

When their laughter trails off, leaving them in the silence of the bathing chamber, Roope notices how sparkly Miro’s eyes are. He also realizes that his legs are still around Miro, and that Miro hasn’t made any move to step back. 

“Do you want to?” Roope asks, even though he thinks he knows the answer. 

“Do I want to what?” Miro answers, and he already knows, too. Roope can see it. 

“You know….” Roope pulls him closer and bites his jaw. Miro’s hands tighten at his hips. “Do you want to fuck?”

Roope can see the answer on Miro’s face when he pulls back. Miro doesn’t bother answering with words, instead pressing their mouths together with much more heat than earlier.

Roope realizes very quickly that Miro obviously has more experience than he thought, so he shows off a little, biting at Miro’s lips, grinding against him with what leverage he can get. 

“Wait,” Roope says as Miro’s hands drop to his shirt. Miro freezes and looks up at him nervously. Roope smirks and pushes him back with a finger below his breastbone. “I’m not touching your cock until you wash off all that blood.”

“Such high standards,” Miro says, shaking his head in mock disappointment even as he strips out of his clothes.

Roope gets naked too, then joins him in the pool, taking a hard-bristled brush along with him. 

Despite the obvious distractions, Miro is taking Roope’s conditions seriously. By the time Roope pulls him out of the water—“It is full of blood now”—Miro is completely clean and Roope could not escape getting cleaned up himself.

Roope takes one of the sheets used for drying off and rests it on the rough floor before letting himself sprawl on top of it, looking up at Miro from under his eyelashes. Miro rolls his eyes, but follows him down anyway. 

Propping himself up on an elbow, Roope reaches for Miro to pull him into a kiss.

When Miro brings a hand up to brush Roope’s hair away from his face, Roope notices he’s still wearing the leather hair tie around his wrist. Roope catches his hand. 

“You kept this?” Roope looks up at Miro, feeling very out of his depth for some reason.

“Of course,” Miro murmurs. He brushes a thumb over Roope’s lower lip, studying his face. “It’s how I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Miro’s expression is hard to determine with shadows dancing over his face. 

“That I wanted to do _ this.” _Miro leans down and kisses him again, slow and sweet. He runs his fingers through Roope’s hair again. He doesn’t even pull. 

Roope shivers. He’s hardly some wide-eyed maiden, but something about Miro—about the way Miro touches him—makes him feel like one. Miro draws away from his mouth to kiss his jaw, down his neck. His lips are featherlight.

Nobody has touched Roope like this in a very long time. 

Roope lets himself fall. 

Miro runs his hands up Roope’s belly, over his chest and back up to his face, sweeping his thumbs over Roope’s cheekbones. He brushes gentle fingers over Roope’s scars—the one on his hip given by trident, the one on his shoulder from a near-fatal encounter with a spear, the oldest one on his chest from the Roman _ gladius _ the day he was caught. Miro presses a sweet kiss to that one.

“Miro,” Roope gasps, and it feels like the only thing he remembers how to say. All his Latin is jumbled in his mind. If at knifepoint, he doubts he’d be able to do something as simple as introduce himself.

“Wish we had more time,” Miro says, and his voice is so quiet that for a heartbeat Roope doesn’t realize that he’s not speaking Latin anymore.

He wonders, then, what this would be like if they _ did _ have more time. If they weren’t an unlikely pair of gladiators brought together by the Romans, trying to find a moment of peace before being thrown to the wolves over and over again. If Miro had made journey to Roope’s village from his home, let Roope show him the forests and the streams, kissed him under the old oak. If Miro would help carry wood for a fire in the long winters, lie with Roope in the fur blankets of his bed.

If the Romans were nothing more than a story to talk about over a mug of ale.

Roope kisses Miro fiercely, feeling something warm building in his chest, letting Miro trail his fingers down Roope’s abdomen to take both of them in his hand. 

Gasping against Miro’s mouth, Roope drops his head back against the thin sheet. He bites his lower lip, trying to stay quiet. He rocks into Miro’s hand, chasing the sensation of Miro’s callused hand on his cock.

Miro’s breath grows faster and he buries his face in Roope’s neck as he comes. Feeling Miro tense above him, the heat of his skin, his hand still working unsteadily, it’s all too much. Roope follows him over with a sigh. 

They lie together, trying to regain breath. Miro murmurs soft words into Roope’s ear, making him glad the torchlight is too dim for Miro to see his blush.

“We should wash,” Roope says finally. He’s starting to feel uncomfortably sticky. 

Miro gets up to let him stand and they both enter a pool to scrub themselves off efficiently, mindful that they’ve already been longer than _ a few moments, _as Miro told the guard. 

After they dress, on their way back up to their sleeping cells, Roope takes Miro’s hand and laces their fingers together. Miro smiles at him and squeezes back. 

They let go after a beat so nobody sees, but Roope feels the pressure of Miro’s hand on his long after he is gone. 

* * *

Esa is enormously smug when he realizes what Roope and Miro did. Esa is unbearable when he’s smug. He keeps _ smirking _ and whispering to Klingberg while the two of them watch Miro and Roope train. Every look he gives Roope is underlaid by _ I told you so. _

Roope wants to punch him a lot. 

One of Lemieux’s gladiators gets to him first. 

Lemieux is something of a legend. A Gaul, a former gladiator who gained his freedom in the arena and gained enough wealth to become proprietor of his former _ ludus _ after his old _ dominus _ had died childless. Under him, his gladiators have won a number of tournaments in recent years.

Roope _ hates _ him. He hates how a man who knows what it is like to be in chains could so easily put others there.

And now he hates him because his gladiator almost killed Esa. 

This gladiator is new, a man Roope recognizes, but not from Lemieux’s _ ludus. _Freshly bought from Marcus Claudius Magnus, then. 

He’s a Macedonian, deadly fast and dangerous with the sword he fights with in the style of his people, not afraid to fight a little dirty sometimes.

He’s the one who cut Esa’s leg deep enough that he won’t stop bleeding even after he’s been carried off the sands. 

Roope doesn’t hate _ him. _He doesn’t hate any opposing gladiators, though he knows they sometimes hate him.

This Macedonian, Roope thinks, is not a hateful man. His face is pale as he looks over his shoulder to the gate where Esa’s been carried. As he turns back, Roope can see the mess of scarring on his arm where his old _ ludus’s _ symbol was burned away and a new one branded below it.

Roope presses a thumb over his own brand and picks up his sword. 

The gate rises in front of him, gears creaking as he ducks under it and steps out. Jason is with him, and Ben towers between them.

Across the sands, three of Lemieux’s men take their places. 

Roope raises his sword. He will fight, for Esa. 

He won’t kill for Miro, for the nameless Macedonian, and for himself. 

He thinks of Miro’s face as the signal to begin is given. 

He remembers the fear in Esa’s eyes, looks to the Roman men in their fine togas on the podium, and he fights. 

* * *

The night is cool, the air damp from the day’s rain as though the gods themselves wept for Esa.

“How is he?”

Normally, Roope and Klingberg do their best not to talk to one another, forcing themselves to be polite when they do speak as a courtesy to Esa, whom they both love. 

Klingberg just looks at him. His pale skin is almost gray, his blue eyes resembling storm clouds more than a spring sky. 

“He’s alive,” Klingberg says. “For now.”

“Is hope lost, then?” Roope asks. He sits down hard beside Klingberg, trying to force down the pressure rising in his throat. 

“There is hope for as long as his heart continues to beat,” Klingberg says. He looks to the sky as though seeking a sign from one of his strange gods. 

“We promised each other that when we were free, we would go _ home,” _Roope says, feeling dangerously close to tears.

“I know.” Klingberg’s voice catches. “He told me. He even asked me to come with you.”

Roope blinks in surprise. Esa never told him that. 

“I expect that’s news to you,” Klingberg says. “He said it would be best not to tell you. That you would be angry.”

“I don’t—" Roope looks at his hands. “I do not truly hate you.”

“I know,” Klingberg says, and he’s only a few seasons older than Roope is, but in this moment he sounds infinitely older. “He knows, too.”

Roope can’t stop himself this time. He chokes on the sob as it forces its way out of him. He presses his hands to his face. 

An arm wraps around his shoulders. Klingberg, comforting him. 

When Roope has spent his tears, he sees shining tracks on Klingberg’s face as well, gleaming under the light of the moon. 

“John,” Roope says hesitantly, “when we are free, you are most welcome to join us when we go home.”

John smiles at him. The expression is faint, but still there. 

“I would be happy to,” he answers. He holds out a hand. 

Roope clasps his forearm firmly. His thumb presses against John’s brand.

When Roope goes to bed that night, he feels as though he is running out of time. 

* * *

“Let go, I can walk,” Esa snaps. 

Miro raises his hands, but trails behind closely. 

Roope exchanges a worried look with John. 

Esa has been out of the infirmary for a week now and has yet to walk without a limp. Sometimes, Roope catches him leaning against walls with a drawn look on his face, as though he’s unable to stand without pain. 

Roope has also seen the way Montgomery has been watching him. 

“He is not long for the _ ludus, _ I think,” Roope tells Miro later. He rests his head in Miro’s lap, hoping Miro will tell him that he’s wrong. Miro winds a lock of Roope’s hair around his finger.

“No,” Miro agrees, “he is not. Two weeks at best if he does not show sign of improvement.”

“They’ll send him to the mines,” Roope says distantly. It is something he has known, but not yet given voice to. Speaking it makes it real. Esa does not have the training to be a house slave, and a cripple cannot be a proper labourer. 

“He will not last long,” Miro says. 

Roope doesn’t answer. There is nothing to say, because Miro is right. He closes his eyes and curls closer to Miro’s warmth, letting Miro stroke his hair until he’s on the verge of sleep. 

“We have to leave,” Roope mumbles. “I will not do nothing while the people I love are taken from me.”

Miro’s fingers brush a lock of hair over his ear.

“I know,” Miro says. “But how? We have no real weapons save when we must fight in the arena, no horses, and Esa can barely walk, much less run.”

“But you would come with me?” Roope asks. He didn’t realize until this moment how much it would hurt him in Miro says _ no. _

“Of course,” Miro says. “I only think of what will stand in our way. Escape from the _ ludus _alone will be difficult. Escape from the city, and from here the Republic as a whole…. Should we succeed, we will deserve a hundred songs.” 

Roope curls a hand over Miro’s knee.

“We can do it,” Roope promises. “We _ will.” _

* * *

“You are mad,” John says when Roope tells him his plan. It doesn’t sound like a refusal. 

“Then you will help?”

“It is a terrible idea,” John says, “but it seems we do not have time or circumstance to think of a better one.” He sighs. “I will help.”

With John’s help, the word spreads quickly through the _ ludus. _ Even the house slaves promise to help, as many know Roope from his days among them, and agree to help open the gates.

“I have been a slave for most of my life,” one matronly old woman tells Roope. “I would like to see the shores of my lake once more before I die.”

It takes a week for everything to fall into place.

“Getting out of the ludus will not be too difficult,” Jamie says as they eat. “Escaping the city will be the hard part. This is why we must use the sewers.”

A few people groan and wrinkle their noses in disgust. 

“Brave gladiators,” Jamie says drily, “brought low by some Roman shit.”

“When you put it like that….” Ben shrugs. “What choice do we have?”

* * *

The day of the escape dawns clear and warm, and is treated no different than any other until the sun begins to set. 

In the gladiators’ sleeping quarters, there are only a third as many guards as there are gladiators. Why waste coin on more guards? After all, they are all armed with sword and spear, while the gladiators have nothing.

Roope sits on his sleeping mat, tense and waiting. His heart beats quickly.

A whistle sounds. _ The signal. _

Roope jumps to his feet, darting into the hallway to join Jason and Miro. The guard posted near their quarters looks shocked to see the three of them rushing at him, and so is delayed in striking. 

By the time he gets his spear up, Roope is too close for it to be an effective weapon. He wrenches it free of the guard’s hands and it clatters to the floor. Roope throws him at the wall. 

Jason, close behind, takes the dagger from the winded guard’s belt and stabs him through the chin. The guard dies with a gurgling sigh. 

“Let’s go,” Miro says, picking up the spear. 

Roope unbuckles the guard’s sword belt and straps it around his own waist.

They meet the rest of their brothers at the door leading into the main house. A few men are wounded, but all are alive. 

Esa is leaning against John. He smiles grimly at Roope.

The lock clicks and a pale-eyed girl opens the door. She steps out of the way and allows them into the house. 

They keep as quick and quiet as possible. They do not want the entire city to know what has happened before they are gone. 

The outer gate opens easily, and they are _ outside. _

“Here,” whispers a young woman. She points at a heavy iron grate in the street. 

It takes two gladiators to lift it and drag it away from the hole enough for a person to fit. 

Roope keeps scanning the streets, certain someone will round the corner with a shout and rouse everyone near, but nothing happens.

“Roope!” Jamie hisses. 

Roope turns to see almost everyone gone. Miro is waiting on the ladder, Jamie still standing at the top. 

“Your turn,” Jamie says. 

Miro disappears. 

The ladder is slippery, but Roope manages not to fall. The stench is almost unbearable. Miro takes his hand and pulls him away from the bottom of the ladder. 

Jamie waits until everyone has cleared the base of the ladder before he starts down, pulling the iron cover back into its place. 

A few people whisper excitedly. 

“It’s not over yet,” Jamie says grimly. “And have care how you speak. People in the streets might hear.”

Roope doesn’t care that they are not yet out of the city, much less the Republic. He is a free man now, and he will stay that way even if he must die for it.

Miro squeezes his hand. His eyes are bright with excitement, and Roope knows he is thinking the same. 

“Let’s go home,” Roope murmurs. 

* * *

Someone knocks at the door. 

Roope leaves the stew he had been preparing. He rubs his shoulder as he goes to answer—it gets terribly stiff in the cold now. Fucking Romans and their fucking arrows. Roope shakes it off. Time in the warmer climes of Rome has weakened him to cold. 

“We heard Miro killed a deer,” Esa says without even saying hello. 

“I’m sure you did,” Roope says, raising an eyebrow at John. John just shrugs. He’s useless. 

“I don’t suppose you’re willing to invite your best friend in out of the snow to enjoy this deer?” Esa says. 

“My best friend who cannot be bothered to say a simple _ hello,” _ Roope grumbles, but he opens the door to let them in anyway.

“Hello, Roope,” Esa says, and sweeps Roope into an embrace. He’s mindful of Roope’s shoulder. 

“Hello, Roope,” John echoes when Esa lets go. He clasps Roope’s good shoulder and squeezes. “I am glad you’re well.” 

“As good as can be,” Roope agrees. “The gods have shown us mercy.” 

“For once,” Esa mutters, and he limps towards the fire. His cane is finely carved oak, crafted by John himself. 

“Oh, do come in,” Roope says sarcastically, following Esa into the house. 

Roope returns to the stew, making sure it hasn’t burned. 

Esa and John sit at the table.

“How is your shoulder?” Esa asks finally. 

“The same.” Roope shrugs lopsidedly. “Your leg?”

“The same.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence until Miro returns with an armful of firewood. 

“You took your time,” Roope says, but he smiles. 

Miro doesn’t dignify that with an answer, instead depositing the wood into the basket beside the hearth. He leans down to kiss Roope on the top of his head before joining Esa and John at the table. 

“I do hope this is better than the last one,” Miro says, resting his chin in his hands. Roope feels warm as he always does when he sees the leather tie around Miro’s wrist. 

“I’ve been practicing,” Roope reminds him. “It will be _ delicious.” _He raises his wooden spoon to emphasize his point.

“Hmm,” Miro says. 

Esa exchanges a dubious look with John. 

“You are all terrible friends,” Roope says primly, and they all laugh at him. Roope bites his lip, trying not to smile, but he can’t help laughing helplessly when he sees Miro grinning at him.

“The stew was better this time,” Miro says. 

The hour is late. The embers of the fire glow dimly, casting long shadows through the room. Outside, the wind howls as snow swirls through the air, but inside, Roope is warm with Miro curled up next to him under their furs. 

“You don’t need to lie to make me feel better,” Roope says. He pokes at Miro’s side, making him twitch.

“It’s true,” Miro protests. “Maybe because it was my deer.” Roope can almost hear him smirking. 

Roope rolls on top of him, nosing at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Miro brings his hands up to Roope’s hips automatically. Roope kisses his jaw. 

“I am glad you came with me,” Roope says softly. “I was afraid you would return to your village forever.”

Miro takes Roope’s face in his hands. 

“How could I not?” he asks. “You saved my life long before we ever left the _ ludus.” _ Roope frowns, confused. “You gave me something to fight for,” Miro tells him. “Without you, I might have lain down on the sands and let that lion kill me.” 

Roope shifts his weight to one side, bracing himself on his good arm, and lift a hand to curl around Miro’s wrist. He strokes a finger over the leather. It is frayed and stained, but it stands for everything they have been through together.

Miro’s free hand runs over Roope’s tattooed arm, brushing over the bump of scarring where the brand is hidden under the ink. 

“I love you,” Roope murmurs, ducking down to kiss Miro softly. “I want you to stay with me forever.” 

“I will stay with you as long as the gods allow us to walk the Earth together,” Miro tells him, a fierce note to his voice that convinces Roope that he tells the truth.

Roope lets Miro roll them onto their sides and kiss him.

Closing his eyes, Roope feels for the first time that Rome is very far away. 

**Author's Note:**

> warnings!
> 
> \- there's only one really significant fight scene and mire kills a lion
> 
> \- esa gets injured and everyone is worried that he's going to get sent away to die. he doesn't
> 
> \- nameless guards get killed in the great escape
> 
> \- uh? sewers?
> 
> i know roope is like... a thot but i was trying to convey the vibe of being like YEAH i'm cool but then inside you're kind of vulnerable... anyway i do what i want. also that idea of being Sensitive that miro is better than him... but also miro is cool so he's gotta smash.
> 
> me vs being incapable of not mentioning brandon tanev even when not naming him. look macedonia was part of greece and therefore rome. also making up latinicized names for mark chipman owner of the winnipeg jets. it's legit, baby.
> 
> also after writing that long sea monster one, apparently nobody can fuck outside of bathtubs or bathtub-adjacent areas anymore in my fics. get used to it.
> 
> [tumblr](https://symphony7inamajor.tumblr.com)


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